First Blood
by Riptide Monzarc
Summary: In the third story of Sanguinarius Sanctus, Warden-Commander Athadra's history finally catches up with her, and her decisions shake the foundations of the most powerful empire in Thedas.
1. In War, Victory

Author's note: Welcome to _First Blood_, the third installment of _Sanguinarius Sanctus_. It picks off right where _Birds of Prey_ ended, so this chapter has spoilers for the final chapter and the epilogue of that story. See what happens when Warden-Commander Athadra meets her match, and watch her actions bring an empire over the precipice of collapse.

Beware of spoilers for _Dragon Age: Asunder _and _The Masked Empire_, though there will be major divergences from both, owing to the established canon of _S.S._ Explicit violence, gore, and non-consensual sexual situations are also on the way. I answer all signed reviews, and I appreciate hearing any feedback, so feel free to tell me what you think!_  
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_Kirkwall_

_30 Bloomingtide, 9:36 Dragon_

oOoOo

After four full years of shepherding the Hawke twins and their companions through the downright Orlesian morass of politics and business-along with the occasional shooting of competitors-that living with money in Kirkwall entailed, Varric knew he shouldn't have been surprised at how things turned out. But, for some reason, when he woke up that morning (okay, that afternoon), the beardless dwarf hadn't planned on a front-row seat at Blondie's one-man show, loosely titled _Let's Turn the Motherfucking Chantry into a Goddamned Hole in the Ground._ Yet here he stood, and up the hill, the motherfucking Chantry stood very much no longer. The show's audience had also comprised at least three-quarters of Kirkwall's annual supply of crazy in the form of Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino, though they weren't standing anywhere nearby at the moment; after Meredith had demanded Hawke help her annul the Circle in response to Anders' crime (and after Hawke had told her to fuck off by way of killing about a dozen templars), the two power-brokers both scurried off to the Gallows, expecting Hawke and her friends to clean up their fucking messes, like always.

The moment of truth had come and gone, when Hawke's companions had to choose whether to follow her into one more fight. Siding with Orsino had been too much for Fenris, the former slave of Tevinter magisters...but the Hawkes' service to him over the years meant a clean break, without bloodshed. The rest of their company, from Aveline on down, affirmed their support of Hawke's decision...all except for Sebastian, who was just now working himself into an awful lather, demanding that Anders die for what he'd done.

"If I'd been in the Chantry today," the Chantry-boy whined, "would you be waffling now?" The irony of _Sebastian_ complaining about waffling was almost enough to make Varric laugh, but the sound couldn't quite penetrate the shock that still settled heavily on the dwarf's chest. "You know what must be done!" Sebastian went on, cajoling Hawke.

Anders, sitting on an overturned box, breathed something too quietly for Varric to catch. Hawke glanced back over her shoulder. "Help me defend the mages," she said, her own voice blank.

Anders mumbled something else, a little louder, that he capped off with a hearty "Damned right I will!"

Sebastian's shoulders hunched indignantly, but a shadow moved in the corner of Varric's vision, and he turned to see the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden step into the glow from the still-burning hole in the ground, its light reflected back at them from the dark midnight clouds. The elf's crimson eyes fixed on the dwarf so ferociously that he couldn't speak, but the ranting human seemed unaware of the presence inching up behind him. "No, I cannot let this abomination walk free," Sebastian insisted, audibly slamming a fist into his palm. "He dies, or I'm returning to Starkhaven!" As he continued, the Commander eased both of her longswords out of their sheaths, taking a deep breath and shaking her head. "And when I return," Sebastian swore, oblivious, "I will bring such an army with me that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!"

Merrill sucked in a gasp as the Commander's right-hand blade whipped into Sebastian's neck like it was a sapling's trunk. From Merrill's other side, Isabela whistled appreciatively when the Grey Warden pivoted, bringing the tip of her left-hand blade to the joint in Sebastian's armour, right under his armpit. Varric found his voice just as that sword plowed into the poor man's torso. "Holy shit," he gruffed, one hand reaching back for Bianca's stock...though he didn't like his chances, if the elven Warden turned her sights on him again. _Poor bastard_, Varric thought, as he saw the human's life spurt out from around the intruding blade.

Sebastian fell to his knees, and then onto his face, the last of his life spent gurgling in his own blood. His murderer grunted as she retrieved her blades. "Good luck raising that army, Chantryman," she rasped, straightening from the effort of pulling the sword from the side of his chest. Then she locked eyes with Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, her former charge. A moment of tension passed when the elf's head inclined, ever so slightly. "Let's get to the docks," she said, a hair above a suggestion.

Hawke didn't reply, but when the Warden turned around and began a silent march back into Lowtown, the Champion followed after her. Varric spared one last, regretful glance at Sebastian's corpse before he began waddling with purpose, and his resolve had Aveline, Merrill, and Anders moving in his wake. Isabela was already ahead of him, stalking in between the two Grey Wardens-one human, the other elf; both mages, both from Ferelden. Hawke had spent just over two years under the elf's command, first in Ferelden and then in Kirkwall, until the human had saved the city from the Qunari and assumed the mantle of its Champion.

"Athadra," Isabela mused, as though her and the two Wardens were out for a lovely nighttime stroll with Hawke's faithful mabari. The three of them were on first-name bases with each other...and though Varric occasionally wondered just how far those bases went, he'd never been quite drunk enough to ask when Hawke and the Rivaini were close at hand. "You wouldn't be commandeering my new ship, now, would you?"

The Warden actually _laughed_. It sounded like gravel getting ground into dust. "Just to hop across the harbour," she countered. "But you'd _better_ not sink her; we ain't got time to strip off our armour and put it back on."

"Small chance of that," Hawke sighed, almost wistfully. "Isabela's been trying to get us away from this madness for months, now-"

"Years," the Rivaini corrected.

Hawke sighed. "_Years_," she conceded. "I doubt she'd even let a hurricane waylay us."

Isabela gave them a full-throated chuckle, much more melodious than the Commander's rasp. "Got that right," she vowed. "So you'd better get things sorted out good and proper, because the _Falcon's Wing_ isn't calling on this port again until they've got some decent booty to plunder."

The Warden spoke up again. "We'll get it sorted," she promised, in a tone that promised the kind of _sorting_ that meant leaving behind a fucking tangle of body parts. He entertained another moment's reflection on Choirboy's cooling body, but he knew better than to air his misgivings aloud-even though the Commander had lost the outside of one of her ears in the fight with the Archdemon, her good ear was still as sharp as any elf's, and Varric thought his neck looked quite handsome with his head still attached to it.

oOoOo

Blood and sweat chilled Bethany's flesh, soaking into her leather and chainmail armour, drying on her face. The grime came from fighting templars and demons and even some of her fellow mages...and from the monster that Orsino had become, in the last hour of his madness. It was too much for her to accept, that the man she'd suffered, the man she'd fought and killed to protect, had given up on them all when he was needed most. More than that, he'd aided and comforted Quentin, the madman who'd butchered her mother. That betrayal was one too many, cutting deeper than the annihilation of the Chantry, boiling her viscera even as a shiver stole over her aching shoulders. She knelt in the centre of a vortex of carnage, bent steel and broken bones strewn about the ancient architecture of the Gallows, mocking the title that Meredith had given her.

She went through the motions of healing up Aveline, who'd mangled her left leg in the fight against the flesh-made golem that Orsino's eleventh-hour turn to blood magic had wrought in him...but Bethany's heart wasn't in it, and when Anders gently nudged her sideways, she surrendered to the abomination's superior skill. Aveline's pain must have been great, for she accepted the healer's touch without reproach.

_So much death_. She was glad Carver had stayed behind on the ship with Paqua and the Grey Wardens; all of the allies they'd found in the Gallows had either fled or been cut down, and it was almost miracle enough to rekindle her faith in the Maker that her friends were all still breathing. It was a close thing for Varric and Isabela, who'd both been tended back to ambulance by Anders while Bethany fumbled with Aveline's non-lethal injury. It galled her that she couldn't be more help, but after so many years of fighting to survive, of killing, of being forced to choose between factions, the Champion of Kirkwall was finished. Another shiver took her, but it settled down when a familiar arm wrapped around her shoulders. "Breathe," Isabela enjoined her. "Just breathe, Beth."

The Champion's lungs burned with the sudden rush of fresh air. "I...I can't," she whispered, falling into the pirate's embrace, burrowing her face into the crook of the other woman's neck. "It's too much."

"I know, Sunshine," Isabela affirmed, planting a soft kiss to the crown of her head. The two sat there, holding one another unabashedly in front of the rogues and killers that they called friends, just breathing with one another. Bethany did not weep, though she might have; she simply waited, waited for someone else to decide her fate, for good or ill.

After a few moments, the Champion's deliverance came, in the form of her former Commander. Thus far in the evening, Athadra had been content to compete with Barcus for the role of attack dog, unleashing her unfocused wrath on anyone unlucky enough to stumble astride her intended path; now, however, the elven Warden emerged from her bloodied corner, standing tall in her enchanted armour and holding her swords at the ready. "It's time," Athadra pronounced, in her battle-roughened voice. "Meredith's waited long enough for us."

Bethany kept a corner of her eye reserved for the elf, still unable to muster anything like the courage that Athadra had helped to instill within her. "If her patience breaks," the Champion countered, "let her come."

Athadra's blood-coloured eyes narrowed, and her tongue flicked out to smear a stray fleck of crimson over her upper lip. "If we give her the initiative, she'll kill us all," she pointed out. Then her voice cleared, like Gamlen's might have, after taking a swig of whiskey. "I ain't gonna let that happen."

Despite Isabela's presence, Bethany felt another stab of cold crawl along her spine. "So will you kill me, instead?"

For just one shining instant, Athadra's gaze grew soft, and it seemed possible that she might show a scintilla of compassion. But then she glanced away, and the instant passed, her expression growing cold and hard as frozen stone once more. "If I have to, Beth," the Warden allowed. "But I'm taking the fight to Meredith," she told them all, her voice booming high enough to fill the corpse-strewn hall. "And I will see her _dead_ before this night is through. Which of you will join me?"

One set of feet stirred, and when Bethany tilted her head to look, she was unsurprised to see Anders' haggard form limping toward the Commander of the Grey, the woman who turned him into a Grey Warden, and whose decisions contributed to his decision to invite a spirit to take up residence within him. Athadra could have washed her hands of him long before now...of Bethany, too. This battle had nothing to do with darkspawn, after all. But instead the Commander was here, battlescarred and standing against the knight-commander, a firewall between a madwoman and the annihilation of most of the mages in the Free Marches.

That was enough of a handhold for the Champion of Kirkwall to latch onto, and as she took her next breath, she felt a bit of the ice in her guts begin to melt. "Alright," Bethany sighed, conceding her weariness to Athadra's indomitable will. She groaned as she pulled herself up to her feet, turning around in the cluttered space. Merrill, Aveline, Varric, and Isabela stared at her with varying degrees of hope, trust, worry, and determination; Barcus and Anders flanked Athadra, and that trio seemed relieved. "Let's get out of this death-trap, then."

oOoOo

Against his wont, Anders marched just a half-step behind both of his fellow Grey Wardens, while the rest of the crew kept a few paces' distance, mostly on his advice. The fight with Orsino and healing the party afterward had drained all of the mages' mana, and the fight back through the Gallows saw each of them call upon their blood to power their spells...and that made it too dangerous for the civilian companions to fight alongside the Wardens, lest they catch the foul corruption which coursed through the Wardens' veins.

After destroying the Chantry, it shouldn't have felt like such a surrender for Anders to open his veins and cast his lifeforce at demons and templars; just like Bethany, he'd learnt the skill at the Commander's behest and through her direct instruction, but he'd managed to avoid succumbing to its use in the years between his arrival in the Free Marches and this very night. It put lie to his frequent upbraiding of Merrill's folly, and while the seriousness of their task had kept her from commenting on his hypocrisy, the rebel Warden still caught glimpses of recrimination whenever he looked back at the three civilians behind him. In the end, Anders had to face the consolation-the horror-that he'd had no more choice in becoming a maleficar than he'd had in destroying the Chantry and setting Kirkwall against itself; both had followed Warden-Commander Athadra's designs, both accomplished by her characteristic stew of threats and persuasion.

There were just over a dozen templars in the atrium when Bethany and the Commander led them down the last flight of stairs into the main courtyard of the Gallows. Among them was Knight-Commander Meredith, the last remnant of Kirkwall's civil authority, now that the viscount, grand cleric, and first enchanter were all dead. The sight of her should have done something to fill the howling wilderness within Anders, but as her ice eyes took in the rebels who'd come through so many of her subordinates, who'd come to kill her, the possessed mage could muster only a sliver of pity instead of any rage. For her part, Meredith's lips curled in a snarl as the bloodied companions drew nearer.

Bethany, it seemed, had recovered a bit of her will, for she spoke up at the bottom the flagstone steps. "You'll pay for what you've done here," she sighed, still trying to catch her breath.

Meredith scoffed at that. "I will be rewarded for what I've done here," she exclaimed, her focus drawing in on the woman she'd named Champion of Kirkwall. "In this world and the next."

Bethany's shoulders hunched, but before she could offer a reply, Warden-Commander Athadra stepped in between the Champion and the knight-commander. "I'll give you your reward, Meredith," she gruffed, hefting her bloodied broadsword halfway across the distance between them. The Commander seethed with rage enough for all of the other companions put together, and likely the other Grey Wardens guarding Isabela's ship, as well. "And I'll kill any who make their stand with you."

Anders saw Knight-Captain cullen stiffen from the corner of his eye, but the bulk of the apostate's attention was drawn into Meredith's bravado in the face of the Champion of Redcliffe. "You were never part of this Circle," the knight-commander allowed. "And I tolerated that." _Though you tried to put her here_, Anders reflected, recalling the tale; early in the Commander's plans for Kirkwall, Knight-Commander Meredith had tried to apprehend her, supposedly to ascertain the elf's true identity...she'd brought a dozen templars with her for that assignment, as well. Meredith's _tolerance_ had come at the cost of all twelve of their lives-eleven by Athadra's hand, and the last by Meredith's own, for dereliction of his duty to apprehend the Commander. "But in defending them," the knight-commander went on, "you've chosen to share their fate." She took a single step back, glancing to her templars. "Kill the Wardens and the Champion!" Meredith barked, her hand going for her own sword's hilt. "Kill them all!"

The Commander tensed, but an unexpected voice stilled her assault; Knight-Captain Cullen spoke up, sounding like a man trying to negotiate with the plague. "I thought we agreed to arrest the Champion," he said, though his eyes fell heavily on the elven Warden.

Meredith's eyes frosted anew as she looked at her subordinate. "We are well beyond that, Cullen," she breathed, almost a plaintive call. "You _must_ support me in this."

A heartbeat passed before the knight-captain shook his head. "I am truly sorry, Knight-Commander," he insisted. "But I cannot."

"Fine," the knight-commander hissed, drawing a deep breath. "If even my most trusted lieutenant is insubordinate, I will take care of it myself!" And, with that, Meredith's hand closed on the jutting handle of her odd greatsword. It glowed angrily when she drew it, a demonic red, prickling and whispering a half-familiar siren's song in the back of Anders' mind. Then Meredith's ice eyes lifted, crossing over the Commander, over Anders, settling over the apostate's left shoulder. Right on Varric. "You recognise it, do you not?" She said, almost a chant. "Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads. The dwarf charged me a great deal for his prize."

The bottom of Anders' stomach fell out, but behind him, Varric let out an indignant bellow. "It stole Bartrand's mind away!" He yelled. "It nearly killed him!"

"He was weak," Meredith spat, running her left hand down the flat of her lyrium blade, almost seductively. The metal _hummed_, as if in anticipation of her touch. "Whereas I am not!" Then she rounded on her templars, swinging the sword in a slow, accusatory arc. "You have before you four maleficarum with their mundane thralls," she growled. "You _will_ do your duty and destroy them! It is the Maker's will!"

Cullen stepped forward, drawing his own longsword. It was fine steel, but likely no match against the knight-commander's blade; even so, he held it steady, pointing directly at her. "You go too far, Knight-Commander Meredith," he declared. "I am relieving you of your command. Stand down, and we shall end this madness."

The balance of power shifted, all in a rush, and in another few moments the templars had Meredith surrounded in a loose circle, their swords and shields all drawn against the woman. In response, she accused them of being thralls of blood mages themselves, and began calling upon verses in the Chant of Light in her defence.

Meredith spun around, looking from one templar to the other, and for a single heartbeat it seemed as though they had all forgotten about Bethany and the Commander, and even him. For that simmering heartbeat, Anders had a thought that they might let the templars' coup occur by its own devices, and escape in the chaos. But then Meredith looked beyond her circle of accusers, her eyes fixing upon the elven Warden, the woman she'd tried and failed to apprehend. _No_, Anders thought, halfway between a curse and a prayer...but, of course, the Maker had never seen fight to listen to him before. There was no reason for Him to start now.

The two women moved as one, coming together, both cutting through a pair of unfortunate templars who couldn't flee in time. The ten remaining, including Cullen, scattered and scrambled as the Commander of the Grey and the Knight-Commander began their duel.

Athadra's greatblade was called _Starfang_, the only weapon she'd named; it was beautiful, more than a handsbreadth from edge to edge, nearly as tall from crossguard to tip as the elf herself. The name came from the material from which it had been forged, during the Fifth Blight-star metal, fallen from the heavens. The steel was forked through with blue-green channels of raw lyrium, a form even rarer than the red variety out of which Meredith's blade was forged. The warriors matched one another blow for blow, swinging their thick weapons much more quickly than a naive onlooker might have thought possible, each clash of steel cracking the air like a thunderclap, punctuated by the exchange of wordless warcries.

The templars seemed awed and terrified in equal measure, and could not reorganise themselves adequately as Athadra and Meredith gained and lost ground over the flagstones of the atrium. Sensing his chance, driven by a thirst for vengeance and this unmissable opportunity, Anders bared his forearm once more, intending to slice it open with the bladed end of his staff and join the battle once more.

Bethany's hand landed heavily on his wrist, and for the space of a breath, blue tinged the edge of his vision as he glanced sharply at the Champion of Kirkwall. "No," she breathed, vocalising his earlier hope. "Not unless she needs our help." Her blood-smeared face was set as she looked back to her companions, her friends, only softening for a heartbeat as her gaze landed on the pirate who'd somehow let the mage into her heart, even if neither would admit it to the likes of Anders. "We will rest," she commanded, raising her voice over the sound of the battle-it was single combat, but could hardly be termed a skirmish-and then she turned back to observe Athadra and Meredith. Slowly, like he was easing a cramped muscle, Anders felt his inner companion loosen its grip around his vital organs.

A few more of the templars seemed to come to another conclusion, for they tried stepping into the ongoing combat, seeking weak points or unguarded flanks. Three templars gathered up enough of their courage to do this, and three times Meredith and Athadra broke off their engagement, turning to cut the interlopers into pieces. By now Athadra's sword glowed a deep teal, heated by Meredith's parries and its own magic. Each thunderclap came more quickly than the last, the air filling with a dazzling show of red and blue light, swirling and streaming. Anders was inured to the stench of burning blood, but he had no doubt it might have choked a few of the surviving templars. Strike for strike, the two women danced, the force of their blows shaking into the onlookers' bones. After a particularly brutal exchange, the combatants were thrown a few paces apart; a brilliant flash filled the atrium when they came together after having leapt to close the distance, and as the light dimmed Anders saw that their feet did not return to the ground as they ought to have done.

Instead, the screaming warriors took their battle to the skies. The aura of their blades spread, enveloping them in their distinctive glows...a sinister crimson for the knight-commander, a bright blue for the Commander of the Grey. Those two balls of light danced frantically, crashing together and flying apart, bouncing off of the Gallows' ancient columns and great bronze statues. The spectacle drew gasps and curses from the templars and the renegades alike; it should not have been possible to sustain such intense flight, even for demons or abominations. The display was awful and awesome, humbling to behold, terrifying to contemplate...that so much power could be concentrated into two living beings without shaking the whole of the world to its very foundations defied all understanding.

From the edge of his awareness, Anders sensed the rest of the Grey Wardens drawing nearer, likely investigating the sights and sounds of the duel. There were three who still considered themselves under Athadra's command; Nathaniel Howe, whom Anders had met in Amaranthine so long ago, and two Wardens recruited more-or-less from within Kirkwall. One was a mundane elf named Faenathiel, whose skill and quickness as a pickpocket had earned her a lifetime in the Deep Roads. The last was a Qunari-_Kossith_, Anders corrected himself-a _saarebas_ called Suredat-an, who stood head and shoulders above anyone else in the Gallows; her lips bore the telltale marks of having been sewn shut, and Anders had only recently regrown her tongue, so that she might speak. It was from her tongue that he learnt the Qunari formula for _gaatlok_, and how to lace it with enough magic to get the job done. There was also the elf, Zevran, who wasn't a Warden himself...but he was never far from the Commander of the Grey, just the same.

Anders' attention was drawn forcibly back to the atrium when Athadra's glowing orb plummeted from a height, flickering on the way down, until a heart-rending crash announced her arrival on the flagstones. Not seven paces away _Starfang_ buried half of its length into the solid stone floor, the steel white hot. Anders sucked in a gasp as he watched the blue-green lyrium bleed out of the blade, and before he knew what he was doing, he was already halfway across the floor to the Commander's supine form. The off-blue that had surrounded her was gone, but a more familiar glow began at the edges of the apostate's vision, and a moment later his world turned to darkness.


	2. Safe Conduct

_Waking Sea_

_1 Justinian, 9:36 Dragon_

oOoOo

"Do not tell me, _querida_," Zevran mused, "that after all this time you have become prone to seasickness."

They stood on the port side of the main deck of the _Falcon's Wing_, the ship Isabela had traded Castillon's life to procure, and Athadra was watching as the eastern sky hued purple with the onset of evening. They'd been sailing since well before dawn, and she had yet to partake in food or rest. "Not hungry," she rasped, her throat still raw from the screaming...first during the battle, and then after. Her whole body ached, and she was glad to be over the water, for it meant she had an excuse to shun her heavy plate. _I often sleep in my armour_, Duncan had told her, years before. _But I shall not drown in it_. She had not had the pleasure of his tutelage for long, but Athadra found herself reflecting upon his example more and more often, of late.

Zevran did not intrude upon her thoughts so much as insinuate himself into them. "It was not your fault, _amora_," he insisted, leaning against the ship's railing just as she did, looking out over the same ocean.

"It were," the Warden countered, but there was no heat in the reply. "I thought myself strong enough to face Meredith alone."

The Antivan elf tilted his head. "It seems you were mistaken."

Athadra's scarred cheek twisted into a grimace that a stranger might have taken for a smirk. "My mistakes have their price," she said, her blood-coloured eyes lifting from the far horizon to the wispy clouds strewn in the blue dome above them. "Fae had to pay for that one." The Warden did not believe in the Maker, nor in any part of outlasting death; to her, there was no point in praying over the souls of the lost. But she could still have her regrets. "I should've…"

"You should have died a thousand times before last night," Zevran purred, looking her up and down; she could tell that he made a catalogue of the scars that hid beneath the rough tunic and simple trousers she wore, relics of battles great and small. "And yet you still draw breath, _querida_," he pointed out. "Faenathiel was not so lucky, but that does not make you responsible for her death."

He was too good an assassin to acknowledge the shiver that licked up the back of her spine, and she swallowed hard against the sandpaper her tongue had become. Instead of offering a reply, the Warden leaned over just a few inches, until her shoulder brushed the top of his arm. Faenathiel was one more grain of sand in the desert of death that Athadra had wrought in the past six years, yet that single grain seemed to weigh as much as a mountain.

A part of her envied Bethany; when the sun had reached its zenith and there was no land in sight, the Champion of Kirkwall had wrapped up her distinctive armour in a burlap sack and hurled it overboard, keeping only the pair of swords that she'd had forged well before gaining the title. Her battle was over, despite all that she'd lost, despite Athadra's blood still coursing in her veins. She still had her brother, and her niece, and the captain of this ship. Athadra's own armour lay in a chest belowdecks, waiting for her to assume it once they reached Highever. It did not weigh nearly so much as the duty she'd taken on, nor the plans she'd begun to effect. Destroying the Chantry and denuding the Gallows of its templars had been necessary, not for any ideological struggle over the freedom or dangers of mages, but because the structures themselves formed essential pillars in a ward scheme enacted by ancient Tevinter magisters in days long past. The wards had been set up to imprison a god...a god that Athadra meant to free, concomitantly with its sister in the heart of the Orlesian Empire. The last two gods revered by the magisters, in the time when the Imperium spanned the length and breadth of Thedas. The last two gods ceaselessly sought by the darkspawn, soon to be unleashed upon the world once more. Against the certainty of resurrecting the Old Gods and unleashing a new Blight upon Thedas, she had little cause to feel maudlin over the death of a single elf, even if that elf had died in her defence.

Even so, she still felt the pressure on her neck, and it eased but little when she let her head come to rest on her assassin's shoulder. With a silken movement, the Antivan elf brought his arm loosely around her waist, and the two of them simply breathed the salty air in each other's presence. He was her lover, yes, but real affection had come late to their interaction; long before she'd accepted his appellation of _amora_, Zevran had been her bedmate, her confidante, her most constant friend. Only recently had she found a sliver of her heart that he could hold claim to, which she'd warned him never to expect, and he'd never been fool enough to demand.

A familiar tingle licked up the back of Athadra's neck. "Hello, Beth," she said, not turning from the darkening sea. "Looking forward to the pirate life?"

"I am," the woman confirmed, sounding both lighter and happier than she had since Athadra had first visited after the Qunari invasion. "And I wanted to apologise," Bethany went on, evidently intending to drag her former Commander into a conversation. The Warden took a steadying breath and shifted, pivoting to lean back against the railing. Like her, Bethany was dressed casually, with daggers at her hips in place of swords. When Athadra did not speak, Bethany cleared her throat. "I'm...sorry, Athadra," she pronounced. "That I stood against you for a moment in the Gallows, and that I couldn't stand in front of Fae."

She and Beth had come to Redcliffe together, forging a kind of camaraderie in the Deep Roads along the way, and Athadra could see the elf's loss written more fully on the human's face than it surely showed on her own. "You got nothing to be sorry for," the Warden said, crossing her arms. "Nor anything to worry about; you've earnt your freedom, from Kirkwall and from me. Make sure you enjoy it."

It was enough of a dismissal for Bethany to nod, but not so insulting as to keep the woman from smiling. She turned aftward, but then glanced back over her shoulder. "You might be free, too," she observed, her honey-coloured eyes lingering over both of the elves. "We could turn full east, skip Highever altogether. You could disappear, Athadra."

The proposition held more appeal than the Commander of the Grey was able to acknowledge, and she felt a smirk play over her lips. "No," she sighed, throwing Zevran a half-apologetic glance, for even though he'd given no sign at all of his agreement with Bethany's suggestions, she knew the woman's opinion was well-received by him. But he knew her answer before she gave it, and he knew why. "Me and mine will get off in Highever."

On this ship, only Zevran and Suredat-an knew even a hint of Athadra's plans, other than Anders himself; everyone else had readily accepted that the renegade mage had acted alone, to his own purposes, and that was also part of the Warden's design. Beyond the _Falcon's Wing_, she could count on one hand the number of creatures who had any knowledge about the continent's impending struggle. The list comprised the First Warden in the far Anderfels; three high-ranking Orlesian Wardens; and the Architect, that mysterious darkspawn capable of communication and sober reflection. It might be terrifying to many what a conspiracy of eight people-nine, if you counted the Architect as a person-could accomplish, given the right circumstances.

Bethany clipped a nod and took a bracing breath, but again, she did not step away. Instead a hint of steel edged onto her face. "And what of Anders?" She asked, softly, but without a modicum of timidity. "Are you reclaiming him?" There was no suspicion in the question, no hint of subterfuge, just a powerful woman sounding out the fate of a friend.

"No," Athadra said again, after a long enough moment to ward off any raised eyebrows on Bethany's part. "He should see his revolution through to the end." He deserved that much, and more, for the service he'd done her. "Try to take care of him, if you would."

The woman inclined her head once more, turning and sauntering back toward the quarter deck, where Isabela stood rooted at the steering wheel like a kraken couldn't displace her.

"Letting him live is generous," Zevran breathed, low enough that it only tickled her good ear; she heard heard the implication, that _generous_ was _dangerous_.

"I can afford to be generous," the Warden rebuffed, turning back to look over the now-black horizon. _I can afford to court more danger_, she meant. If the _Falcon's Wing_ broke up in the sea and dragged them all down to their deaths, the world would still be reshaped, utterly upended from the order that had reigned since before the fall of the Tevinter Imperium. Not a single person could undo what Athadra's hands and the strength of her arms had accomplished; Thedas could only tremble, and rally, and attempt to rebuild a more just world from the ashes that were sure to come.

oOoOo

_Highever Docks_

_3 Justinian, 9:36 Dragon_

He was the first onto the pier, his still-sharp eyes seeking every shadowed corner or pile of barrels. There were no assassins in the immediate vicinity that he could sense, other than himself, of course...but none had ever died of a surfeit of caution, in Zevran's experience. His Warden followed three steps behind, as heedless and fearless as always. Her silver-and-blue armour gleamed in the grey pre-dawn light; it seemed incomplete without the great, magical sword that she'd left embedded in the tower's floor in Kirkwall, but the Antivan elf saw the wisdom in holding his tongue.

The now-former Champion of Kirkwall stood at the top of the gangplank, observing the Fereldan Wardens' departure from the vessel with a sad smile, the kind of smile Zevran had often felt threaten his own lips as he watched his Warden travel the path of her circumstance. She and Bethany had exchanged a few words at the top of the plank, retreading the same dance from the day after the battle, but there was no other way it could have gone, given his Warden's dedication to her vision. Now, joined by Nathaniel and their newest recruit, Athadra gave Bethany Hawke a parting nod. As the ship's crew pulled up the plank and prepared to cast off from the dock, the elven Warden took the lead on the walk down the pier, even more reckless than usual.

The assassin fell into step beside his Warden, keeping his eyes keen, rather than rolling them as he might have wished to. She was being foolish and headstrong, a warrior whose pride had been injured even more than her body by falling out of the sky just short of victory. There was guilt, too, beneath the seething self-recriminations that Athadra could not put her voice to. "So," he probed, as they began climbing the cobblestone street into the city proper, "shall we march all the way to Redcliffe?"

"Not yet," the Warden gruffed. "First, we're gonna visit a tavern," she informed her entourage. "Then we'll see if Fergus'll let us borrow a couple of his horses."

Zevran eyed a few early-risers who ambled down the street in the opposite direction, but the hairs of his neck remained unprickled. "You did show remarkable restraint on the voyage," he commented, dryly. "Not a single _bebida espirituosa_ the whole way."

Athadra grunted a laugh, glancing back at Nathaniel's own chuckle. "Never much cared for rum," she explained, and he took it as an admission of her own generosity; in the Warden's mood, she could have likely drained a cask over the course of two days asea, and the ship's stores of spirits and fresh water were far from ample, owing to the sudden nature of their departure from Kirkwall. "Let's see if we can find some decent whiskey."

The other two Wardens had nothing to say against their Commander's plan...though, to be fair, Zevran had never heard Suredat-an say anything at all, even during the last throes of the fight against Kirkwall's late knight-commander. The elf cleared his throat, however. "Most tavernkeeps are likely sleeping off last night's wine at this hour, _querida_," he pointed out. "Though I am certain your courtly manners could persuade the castellan to bear up some ale from the cellars, when we come calling on the teyrn's good graces."

His Warden considered him for a moment, still trudging up the hill, her boots sinking inches in the soft dirt of the avenue. "_Fine_," she conceded, "but I'm getting whiskey on the way home."

The assassin left it unasked whether he was welcome to accompany her to the fishing village she had made her home and headquarters, and he left it unsaid that he intended to match her step-for-step along the way, if need be. He would not remain in Redcliffe forever, but he was quite looking forward to distracting his Warden from her defeat for a few weeks, when they reached a castle with a proper dungeon that they could use at their leisure. Such thoughts kept Zevran's mind occupied as he and the Wardens wandered through the morning mist, past the gates of the Alienage, where the city's vast servant underclass had only begun to stir. Elsewhere, the great body of humans still slept snugly in their beds, even as four of the deadliest fighters in the country walked in their midst. The fog was burnt away in the true dawn while they ambled along the road up to Highever Castle, a journey of more than an hour afoot.

Soon after the fortress's great walls became tangible against the purplish backdrop of Coastland mountains, an outrider bore down on them, horse and rider bedecked in the livery of Highever. His half-helm exposed an unfurred chin that marked him out as a youth, likely beneath seventeen summers, and when he stopped short and offered his challenge, his voice boomed with the overweening certainty of inexperience. "You approach the keep of Fergus Cousland, Teyrn of Highever and Lord of the Coastlands," he barked. "State your business." He blinked in surprise, his eyes falling warily on Suredat-an, before they slid inevitably to the woman at the head of the party.

It lay beyond the realm of possibility that the boy could not recognise the griffon crest of the Grey Wardens that shone proudly on the elf's breastplate, and it was highly unlikely that he could not infer from the finery of her armour and her one-eared profile that she was the Hero of Ferelden, whose strength and courage had saved him from the scourge of the darkspawn. Yet, somehow, his Warden held back her scorn and her laughter. "I am Athadra," she told the boy. "The Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, the Slayer of Loghain, Teyrna and Champion of Redcliffe. My business is ale, and food, and a few sturdy horses at your master's sufferance."

Tensions still simmered between the two Teyrnirs of Ferelden, one ancient and ruled by the last scion of a pedigreed family, the other less than a decade old and headed by a warrior apostate and her clutch of darkspawn-killing fighters. Zevran counted at least a dozen grievances that Fergus Cousland held against the Grey Wardens, but there were two major impediments to comity that figured into the teyrn's thinking; the first was a well-known massacre of a small hamlet just outside of the Arling of Amaranthine, done in Athadra's name while she was away in the Anderfels, because the village had fallen beyond rescue to a darkspawn raid. The second reason, far more subtle and secret, involved Fergus' certain knowledge that Duncan had been at Highever Castle when Arl Rendon Howe had massacred the Cousland family, including Fergus' parents, his wife, and his young son. There had been a sister whose body was never recovered, and Fergus suspected to his closest confidantes that Duncan, the former Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, had attempted to recruit her into the order during his own escape from the slaughter. Athadra had never mentioned a Cousland recruit, but if the teyrn's suspicions were true, it was likely his sister had died at Ostagar; in any case, Fergus had not lain eyes upon her since the evening he left the castle at the head of his father's army.

But whatever grudge Fergus felt had not manifested into a vendetta, beyond a few impolitic protestations at the Landsmeet over small issues related to the Teyrnir of Redcliffe or the Fereldan Wardens, and the Highever outrider softened his disdainful mien by a few degrees. "I believe such would be acceptable to the teyrn," he allowed. "Please, ser, follow me."

Zevran tensed, waiting for Athadra to correct the boy to call her _Champion_, the title she most loved hearing from those fortunate enough to count themselves beyond the reach of the Grey Wardens. The reproach never came, however; instead, his Warden nodded stiffly, and she fell into step behind the canting horse without further complaint. The assassin allowed his step to fall behind, until he came abreast with Nathaniel, and he shared a look of concern with the human Warden that need not be broken with words. Nathaniel's half-hearted shrug offered no assurances regarding Athadra's state of mind, and Zevran resolved to watch over her more closely, lest her injured pride translate into the sort of rashness that she would have killed one of her subordinates for demonstrating. He did not quite trust her to keep the blade turned away from herself, if he failed in that task.

oOoOo

It was still quite a mystery how humans and elves behaved toward one another; they pretended to know their places, respect order, live their roles. But it was all a lie, betrayed by sullen glances and twitching lips, born of ignorance rather than wisdom. The Commander understood the lie, mocked and detested it as viciously as she disdained the Qun, her very existence a challenge to any semblance of truth behind the empty structures of the Chantrists or the northern islanders both. A _saarebas_ in armour, a weapon with a will, fulfilling a purpose much grander than any she might find in a holy codex or philosophical treatise. That had been enough to earn Suredat-an's acknowledgement of the elf's command and, more recently, her respect. But even as the Commander was not a part of the structure, neither was she apart from it; the dichotomous aspect of her freedom meant that she had to engage with fools who pretended they knew the way.

Fergus Cousland was one such, crumbs of sleep still clinging to his eyes and unscarred armour squeezing his frame; it seemed he had not worn steel in years, for he stood stiff and awkward in his hall when a serving boy finally ushered the Wardens to beg for his generosity. He might have been a fine warrior, once, but now it was plain for all to see that those days were gone. A smile as false as a Tal-Vashoth's honour played over his lips as he swept out an open-handed gesture of welcome. "It is a privilege to have you once again beneath my roof, Teyrna Athadra." He scrutinised each of his guests closely, though he could not conceal the telltale widening of his eyes when he measured Suredat-an's height, her violet-bronze skin, her silver hair, her half-grown horns. But the human recovered with a single blink. "Come, rest easy here, and pardon the disarray of the household; I've only just returned myself from a long journey, and we were not expecting guests so soon after my own arrival."

"That's fair," the Commander allowed, but she gave nothing else away, and betrayed neither curiosity of the human's travels nor manners enough to feign it. "As I told the lad ahorse, we're only arsed for a decent meal and three or four horses for as long as it takes to ride them to Redcliffe; I can have some of my knights bring 'em back, or you can send an agent to trade for some of ours."

The offer was both simple and blunt, unassailable in its fairness, but the human's brow crinkled as though it might be a canny move in a game of wit. "That will not do," he said, softening his words with a roguish smile. "As unexpected as your arrival is, it is most fortuitous," he went on, clasping his hands in front of him. "I've already sent a messenger to Redcliffe in order to invite you to Highever...if you set off now, you might well catch them on the way back from their delivery."

Though she stood behind her Commander, Suredat-an could practically feel the elven Warden's eyebrow arching in response. "Why?" The elf demanded, her wariness naked, just as it should have been.

"Because," the human explained, "in my travels, I have...well," he said, offering an affable shrug, "I've married. It was in rather poor taste of me to solemnise the union on foreign soil, and I seek to rectify that mistake with a banquet in my bride's honour." The human did his best to look hopeful and reasonable. "I can think of nothing better than to have my political counterpart attend; it would do much to end the whispers of rivalry in both our courts, surely."

Several heartbeats passed in silence, with nothing but a quick glance spared between the Commander and the assassin. Behind her, to Suredat-an's left, the human archer cleared his throat. "Congratulations, Teyrn Fergus," he offered in his cultured growl; she knew that he came from noble stock. "Though we still mourn Oriana's loss, it is good to know the Cousland name will

The nobleman's eyes narrowed, as if from some narrow insult or an old grievance, and then Suredat-an remembered that the archer's father had been responsible for butchering the teyrn's family. Rather than issuing a challenge or offering forgiveness, then, the man nursed his grudge behind another false smile. "Thank you, Nathaniel," he said, and then he turned to look over his shoulder. "Bric, would you be so kind as to fetch my lady wife?"

An elven lad in patched clothes leapt from a shadowed corner, bowed, and scurried off to do as he was bid. Suredat-an wondered why the noblewoman had not been waiting with the man who shackled her, but she was not curious enough to break her silence. Having regained her tongue only recently, she knew how precious it was, and would not use it as frivolously as the humans seemed predisposed to do. The archer and the noble were more than happy to exchange further banalities, about one's youth in the Free Marches or the other's recent travels to Antiva and beyond. There was little wisdom in the words, and so Suredat-an allowed her attention to wander, guardedly, over the details of the room and her own thoughts about the last week's events.

Her attention focused instinctively after a few minutes, as the chords of power in the room shifted; she should have noticed it before, but the Commander's magical essence was nearly overwhelming at this distance. The Commander herself noticed it, too, her shoulders hunching and her crossed arms bringing her hands within an instant's grasp of her swords' hilts. Without speaking, Suredat-an slipped one hand behind her back, ready to bring her own bladed stave to bear if need be. The assassin and the archer noticed the _saarebas_' wariness, and a subtle tension entered their stances as well, though it was lost on the comfortable nobleman. "Ahh," he sighed, sending a genuine grin at the doorway through which the elven boy had scurried. "Welcome, my love," he said, gesturing for the figure to step into the hall's brazier-light. "I present Daya Ashanti, daughter of the Betwadad of Dairsmuid, and my lady wife."

The woman was tall and graceful, her face guileless as she approached and stood beside the man. Her skin was a rich brown, offset by the cream colouring of her simple dress, which seemed to serve neither magical nor mundane function. Though no staff jutted from her shoulder and no wards threaded the fabric of her cloth, though, she was most certainly a mage. She also proved to be from Rivain when she gave Suredat-an an open smile. "_Kostebas, neniu katha. Vithmaara rast arvaarad._" _Be at peace, honoured guest. No arvaarad trespasses here._

Suredat-an inclined her head. "_Shanedan_," she replied, her scarred lips twisting minutely as she observed the assassin's surprise; he had yet to hear her speak until that very moment. "You speak Qunlat very well," she continued, in the King's Tongue of this country, for the benefit of the two human men and her own practice. _Well enough that you did not come from Dairsmuid_, she did not say. Likely the human _saarebas_ came from farther north, possibly Kont-aar, the last continental holdout of the Qunari occupation of Thedas which otherwise ended two centuries past. Whether the _saarebas_ or the nobleman was lying about her origins made no difference to Suredat-an.

The Commander looked from Suredat-an to the human _saarebas_, nodding to herself. "Congratulations," she said, for the first time, with a significant glance to the Rivaini woman's midsection. "The two of you didn't waste any time." The woman did not yet show outward signs, but as Suredat-an listened with her blood, she sensed a subtly distinct life-force nestled beneath the human's heartbeat. She would not have noticed it at all but for the Commander's comment. "And, if you really want me to," the Commander went on, over the flabbergasted looks the humans exchanged, "I'll stay here and break bread with you if you want...but my Wardens need to head back to Redcliffe," she insisted. "Today."

The nobleman's objection was plain to see beneath the plaster of his smile. "But surely," he said, "you all deserve a few days' rest; we can have the banquet prepared and served in three days' time."

"That's three days we can't afford to give the darkspawn," the Commander pointed out, standing firm. "My companion and I will remain here," she allowed, after a silent nod from the assassin, "but Nathaniel and Sura _will_ leave today."

The nobleman looked like he wanted to argue the point further, but the noblewoman put a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. "My love," she breathed, her voice as smokey and sultry as the jungles of Par Vollen and Seheron. "No offence was meant; the Grey Wardens must be left to their work. It is an honour to share the presence of the Commander of the Grey, even unaccompanied by retainers."

The man glanced at his mate, his eyes angling slightly upward to meet her gaze, and real pleasure entered his smile. "Of course, Daya," he conceded, and then he faced his guests once more. "Please, feel free to sup here this morning, and your Warden companions may have their pick of the stables before they depart."

The Commander inclined her head, her arms moving to her sides. "Very well, Fergus," she said, the smirk apparent in her voice. "Got anything stronger than ale this early?"

* * *

Thanks so much to my excellent beta-reader, **clafount**! Remember, I answer all signed reviews via PM and I appreciate any feedback I get, so feel free to let me know what you think!


	3. When My Time Comes Around

_Highever Castle_

_8 Justinian, 9:36 Dragon_

oOoOo

As a teyrnir, Highever covered roughly half of Ferelden, its border arcing through the bannorn from West Hill to Gwaren, by way of Lothering. But the seat of the Couslands was supported primarily by a few strong families of the northern Coastlands, principally the Arlings of Highever and Amaranthine, the region's principal port cities. Thus it took only a few days to gather enough nobles for Fergus to call for the feast to begin. Though, perhaps, the Teyrn of Highever was simply itching to be rid of the guest he'd insisted upon entertaining; Athadra spent much of the intervening time between the castle's wine cellar and practice yard, and though she fought with blunted weapons, her lessons to Fergus' regular troops were always savage and often resulted injuries that the teyrn's new bride wound up having to heal. And when she was neither fighting nor drinking, the elf found other avenues to let out her lingering frustration; these, too, might have been cause to call upon Daya's talents, had Zevran trusted the Rivaini apostate to lay hands upon him.

As it was, he made do with Athadra's meagre skill at the restorative arts, and made no apologies for the screams she wrought from him in the night, just as she made no mention of the cries he inspired in his turn. Theirs was a partnership of equal proportion, pleasure and pain given and received without flinching, with mercy only shared sparingly, in the small moments when fatigue crept in. So it did not exactly shock the assassin when, on the morning after their fourth night of delectation, he woke to find his Warden fully dressed in her armour, preparing to face the day by tying her curled hair back. Her left side faced the bed, and as Zevran came awake, his eyes caught on the golden ring that he'd given her not too many years before, which she wore through the cartilage toward the point of her remaining ear.

It _did_ shock Zevran, perhaps more than he could admit to himself, when Athadra reached up with her left hand and grasped the hoop of gold, only to tear it bloodily from her ear. He did not think he made any sound, but his Warden's blood-coloured eyes swept over him, and her grimace expressed more pain than such a trivial hurt must have bred in her. Crimson dripped onto her neck and pauldron before she could heal the injury, and her blood shone on the ring as she held it out to him. It looked much as it had when he'd first acquired it by tearing it out of the ear of his very first victim. She did not speak, and the assassin did not reach out to take the piece of jewellery. The silence lasted for an interminable period, until it was broken by a songbird's chirp from beyond the chamber's window. "Take it," Athadra said, at last. "And leave."

Her words hung in the air, begging for some kind of rebuttal; Zevran sat up smoothly, tossing the bearskin blanket away and pressing his bare shoulders back against the bed's sumptuous headboard. "I admit," he said, still not moving to take hold of his ring, "I cannot comprehend your meaning, _querida_."

The Warden heaved a rough sigh, closing her fist around the bloodstained hoop and climbing out of her chair, her brows knitting. "The dinner's this evening, and if it goes the way I think it will, you won't want to be here tonight."

There was a grim promise in her stare. Zevran found himself glancing to the weapon rack, where her swordbelt and his daggers hung. "If it comes to violence, would you rather not have me at your side, _amora_?" He had spent many of his unamorous hours examining the castle's walls, halls, and cellars for any evidence of subterfuge, but his diligence hadn't tripped any suspicion; he was utterly certain that there was nobody lurking in the shadows to slip a knife in their backs, nor anyone in the kitchens ready to sprinkle poison in their soup. That left the guards and the regular soldiers, none of whom had proven individually formidable, at least in the practice yard.

"I would rather have you at my side for the rest of my days," Athadra breathed, the sentiment in her voice striking, despite the masking rasp from her battle-hardened throat. "But it seems I am out of days, Zevran, and now I would have you live to see tomorrow."

The assassin understood, then, that she had already consigned herself to die...possibly since Kirkwall. "You are certain there is some conspiracy, my love?" He pronounced those last two words quite deliberately, though he regretted it almost immediately when his Warden shut her eyes and turned away from him.

"They're templars," Athadra pronounced, hardly audibly even to Zevran's ears. "All of them."

That revelation removed all doubt, like the fiery sword of Andraste striking the heart of a skeptic. He was out of bed and halfway into his leathers before he realised that he had not responded to the Warden's charge. "Then we go, _querida_, while we still can."

"_No_," his Warden groused, standing steadfast when Zevran rounded on her. She spoke now in Antivan, which wasn't as safe as one might have presumed, since Fergus' long-dead wife had come from Antiva and there might yet be spies in the household who spoke that tongue. "_One skilled elf can spirit away from here, even in daylight, whereas two would be caught and killed along the road._"

He was an assassin, to be sure, but in the years since attaining his freedom from the Crows, he'd learnt something of the honour to be had in courage. "_You are asking me to run_," he pointed out, fixing his daggers behind his shoulders, "_while you throw your life away_."

"_I am asking you to live_," Athadra insisted, meeting his stare without flinching. "_I am uncertain whether Fergus is complicit, but I am sure that Alistair will want to hang him; you cannot let that __happen._"

The assassin found he could not breathe for a few heartbeats. His eyes did not mist over, as they had not for more than half of his life, but it took him far too long to trust his voice not to betray some sense of anguish. "_Is there anything I might say to convince you to quit this place with me_?"

His Warden shook her head, slowly. "_I'm sorry, love_," she said, and Zevran felt a frigid rosebush wrapping around his heart, for that was the first time in his recollection that she had said the word aloud within his hearing, in any of the many languages she knew. "_I lied to you when I told you I could not trade my heart with yours_," she went on, bringing back the visceral memory of the first time she'd pushed him into the dirt and ridden him half to death during the Blight. "_But I cannot go with you now, and you cannot stay with me here_."

"_Then I shall not do you the insult of begging_," Zevran assured her, every word a bit more difficult to wring out than the last. "_Shall I say that we were set upon by bandits_?"

"_If you like_," his Warden allowed. "_Or you may claim that you woke to find me absent...just make sure the king does not seek vengeance with steel_," she went on. "_You know what is __coming_."

The assassin inclined his head and closed his eyes. "Fight," he whispered, in the King's Tongue, so that any spies might understand at once. "Promise me you will seek your own vengeance with steel, so that I might fulfil your wishes without remorse."

"I will wash the floors with their blood," she assured him, and at long last he found the earring pressed into his palm. The metal thrummed with her heat as his fingers closed over it. The Warden gripped his clenched fist, bringing it up level with her chin, brushing her lips across his knuckles.

"That is much too gentle a goodbye," Zevran observed, and in the next heartbeat he was crushed against the door, his arms pinned out from his body and his mouth filled with his Warden's tongue. His eyes fluttered open to meet Athadra's crimson gaze, which he devoured just as hungrily as he fell into her kiss. He knew every line and scar of her body, every black (and the few strands of silver) hair on her head, every chord of muscle knotted through her flesh...but she still promised to be the study of a lifetime, too strong and too proud to die in this place. But she made her choice, and when she tore herself away from him, Zevran somehow found the strength to remain standing.

"You'd better go," Athadra husked, stepping back two paces away from the door. Her mouth set in a deep frown, old scars stretching taut across her cheeks, and she nodded for him to leave her.

There was more Zevran might have said, more he might have asked of her, but instead he nodded in his turn. "I shall do as you demand, _querida_."

And he did.

oOoOo

She judged that half an hour was more than enough time for the assassin to steal away from the castle and disappear into the rugged countryside. Every time she'd gone near the gate in the last few days, the guards had made excuses and requests and innuendos that all added up to her and her guest being unable to leave the castle's grounds. That, coupled with the fact that every single one of them fought like a templar, told her everything she needed to know about her predicament. When the allotted half hour passed without a hew and cry from the kennels, Athadra knew Zevran had gotten away cleanly, and she emerged from the room they'd shared for the last time.

Her destination this morning was not the practice yard but the library, which was still one of the envies of the country despite losing many of its volumes to Rendon Howe's duplicity. Reading and learning had been the great loves of her life for nine years, before she'd ever laid hands on a sword, before she had been forged into a weapon herself; whatever else happened this day, she would spend at least a few hours of it in pursuit of those old pleasures, which had been her only avenues to sanity during her long years of confinement in the Circle Tower.

Athadra arrived at the storehouse of scrolls and codices to find it already occupied by three men who stood by the fire, whispering lowly in Orlesian. The central figure noticed her presence immediately and signaled for silence from his companions; a quick glance told the Warden that the two younger men were guards, one of whom was still bruised from yesterday's exercise in the yard, but the middle man was unfamiliar to her. He stood tall and strong with a thick head of short hair, touched with grey at the temples, and a solid black moustache in the Orlesian style. That moustache prickled with a solicitous grin and the man took a half-step forward, shouldering past the underlings. "Welcome, Champion," he offered, his accent a nearly-perfect facsimile of the dialect of northern Ferelden. "It is an honour to meet you at long last; my name is Askell Freiholt, the Arl of Highever."

The Warden eyed his heavy cloak, buttoned and tied up to his neck, though the long hilt of a broadsword sprouted behind his right shoulder. She heaved a sigh, casting a rueful glance at the rich shelf of books that beckoned for her attention. "_Et qu'est-ce que tu t'appelles, vraiment_?" She asked, leveling her gaze at the man and his cohort. "_Tu n'est pas seigneur, comme vous et moi savons_."

The man who certainly wasn't Askell Freiholt looked impressed; the other two tensed up, shifting nervously in their unadorned chainmail, looking to him and to each other, anywhere but at her. "It is a rare thing," he said in his clipped Common Tongue, "in my profession, to be recognised when we wish to be inconspicuous."

Athadra grunted a laugh. "I've had some experience with surreptitious templars before," she told them, remembering a string of warriors she let take the Joining years before. They lived and fought in Amaranthine with her, and as soon as she journeyed to the Anderfels, they tried to kill Anders. After that, Athadra got _very_ familiar with templar fighting techniques, and she killed any templars who tried to Join her order's ranks. There had been more than one. "What's your name, templar?"

"Ahh," he mused, amusement colouring the corners of his mouth. "That is where you are mistaken, mage." He gave the title no edge of acid, as most within the Chantry's hierarchy would. "We are not templars. We are Seekers of Truth. My name is Lambert van Reeves, and you have gained my attention."

The Warden took a measured breath, swallowing the chill that tried to crawl up the back of her throat. "Lord Seeker," she said, inclining her head, though she did not lower her blood-coloured eyes. "Does Fergus know?"

Before the Lord Seeker could answer, the man on his left charged forward, a half-formed battlecry on his lips and a half-drawn sword in his hand. Lambert shouted "_Arrête_!" and the fool halted two paces from Athadra, his sword not yet cleared from its scabbard.

The Warden's fingers curled around the hilt of one of the daggers crossed at the small of her back, the simmer of its hale and impact runes tingling up the muscles of her forearm, begging her to draw it out of its sheath and across the young man's throat. "No need to jump the moat quite yet, boy," she cautioned, taking her fingers off of her blade's handle one finger at a time.

"Indeed," the Lord Seeker agreed, frowning. "We mustn't be hasty in administering the Maker's justice. There will be plenty of time, Anselme." He forced the smile back onto his lips, shining it back toward Athadra. "We are all civilised, after all."

"Of course," the elf allowed, but she glanced toward the eager man. "Don't worry, Anselme," she told him, not unkindly. "When we're finished talking, I'll kill you first, since you seem so keen on it."

Lambert cleared his throat, pre-empting Anselme's response. "Then it is in our interest to keep talking, _n'est-ce pas_?" He gestured to a table stacked high with papers, where two chairs stood empty, waiting to be filled. "Would you like to sit, Champion?"

Athadra shook her head, glancing from Anselme to Lambert and thence to the unnamed Seeker. "Does Fergus know you've come for me?"

"Of course he does," the unnamed Seeker boasted, his tones rounded with northern Navarran curves. "You believe we could have infiltrated a _true_ noble's estate without his knowledge?"

It was a pathetic slight, and when it went unreprimanded, she knew it was meant to rile her up. Instead of rising to the bait, Athadra smirked, her thoughts lacing together. "He cut a deal," she pronounced, raising her eyebrows at Lambert. "To keep his blushing bride free and outside the Circle."

"Very impressive, Champion," the Lord Seeker conceded. "Once again I seem to have underestimated you. I shall not do so again."

"See that you don't," she prompted. "And you can take off that ridiculous cloak; it must be hot enough in that armour, and it'll be one less thing I have to cut through." She tilted her head. "I wonder what the rules are for succession in the Seekers?"

The two underlings blanched, but Lambert's only reaction was to smile more widely. "Happily, it is quite dissimilar to the selection process for the First Warden." When Athadra's eye twitched, his smile shifted to a smirk. "Should I fall today, the Divine would call a conclave of the order, and my replacement would find it far more peaceable to assume his post."

Athadra shrugged, crossing her arms casually across her chest, ignoring the nagging growl in her stomach. "Their loss," she scoffed, grimacing; it had been a dream of hers to bid for the First, once Johanus took his Calling, but it seemed that wasn't in the cards any longer.

"Are you ready to begin, Champion?" Lambert asked, shrugging out of his heavy cloak. He wore the distinctive armour of his order, the secretive branch of the Chantry that rooted out heresy and corruption within the templars and elsewhere. The heavy plate was black, emblazoned with a Chantry sunburst whose centre formed an eye, meant to intimidate all who saw it.

Athadra was not intimidated. "Not here," she mused, tossing another glance at the pristine shelves. "I won't have any burnt books on my conscience. Besides, you'll need more room than this place affords if you want any hope of making it back to whichever Void-taken hole you crawled out of." Even so, she let her hands fall an inch down her flanks, an inch closer to the handles of her longswords. "We could repair to the Great Hall and some of your thugs can push that big table back against the wall."

The Lord Seeker measured her with a sober look. "Would it be too much for one of my subordinates to alert our hosts to a change in their dinner plans?" At another not-so-subtle rumble from the Warden's empty belly, Lambert raised a brow. "Unless you would rather have a decent meal before we came to blows, of course."

The offer was tempting, but Athadra's good manners were wearing fairly thin, so she shook her head. "Send the other one," she told the Lord Seeker, turning her blood-coloured eyes to Anselme. "Not this one. He's not leaving my sight until his blood's on my boots." She'd already bloodied his nose, the day before last, though no evidence remained of their time in the yard. She would correct that in short order.

"You can't speak to me like that," Anselme exclaimed, but Lambert cut him off before he could go any further.

"Manners, Anselme," the Lord Seeker admonished, then he glanced to his right. "Gerard," he prompted with a nod, and the named man parted with a salute, brushing past Athadra without making eye contact. Lambert nodded to the elf. "After you, madame. I swear by Andraste's grace that we shall not stab you in the back, and that Anselme will not flee." He gave Anselme a reproving stare at that, and the younger man's sneer melted into an obedient inclination of his head.

Athadra took a slow breath, closing her eyes; she sensed more than three-dozen hearts beating within the vicinity, but most of them were Fergus' servants, rather than warriors. If she turned and ran now, it was just possible that she might make the gate before enough of the Seekers converged to overwhelm her. No way for the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden to die. She kept her hands a finger's width from the handles of her blades as she turned and stalked back into the open-air corridor, her pace easy, her muscles already relaxing to let her magic flow out of her flesh without causing her injury when the Seekers inevitably used their tricks to turn it against her. The Great Hall wasn't far, and it wasn't long before it was half filled with guards who worked to clear enough space to give them plenty of room to dance. "One more thing," she said to Lambert, as his men moved to surround her, much like another gang of templars had done to Meredith, a scant few days before. When the Lord Seeker's eyebrow arched, Athadra gripped her weapons. "Make sure I don't burn."

She'd prefer to lay beneath a cairn in Lothering, near to where her grandfather lay, but she knew that was too much to ask of the Chantrists. Lambert sighed and nodded, once. "Athadra Surana," he intoned, reaching behind his shoulder. "You have my vow that you shall not see the pyre. Now, if you've no objection, let us begin."

The Warden answered by bulling forward, straight at the Lord Seeker, only diving to his left at the last moment so that her shoulder drove into Anselme's midsection. Her pauldron clanged against his breastplate and he staggered backward; a heartbeat later both of Athadra's longswords sawed into his throat as she drew them apart, and the next instant saw her heavy boot come down hard on the newly-opened gash, crushing the man's neck almost to the floor. "Now," she barked, raising her left-hand blade to parry the strike from Lambert's much larger broadsword, "we begin."

And so they did. Lambert used his blade to push her back, while the Seekers behind her broke from the circle, each clamoring to wield the sword that first pierced her flesh. Athadra could not stand against them all at once, so she rolled sideways, putting distance and bodies in between herself and the Lord Seeker; if she'd had Starfang, she would've taken him head-on, but her twin blades were no match for his broadsword...at least while her flanks were in danger. Before she pulled out of the roll, she was hit with more than a dozen anti-magical attacks, meant variously to drain her mana, temporarily freeze it within her, or tear it painfully away. Unfortunately for the Seekers of Truth, however, the Warden had longsince learnt how to let her mana dissipate without doing her too much injury. She killed five more of them before Lambert ordered them to cease their warding and tend to her directly. The blood of the fallen called to her, livid, yearning to be put to use before it cooled and dried and turned to dust...but her armour was too perfect at turning away the few strikes that got within her blades, and she was too busy fending off attacks to open her own flesh in order to capitalise on the resource.

Fighting a mob of Seekers wasn't very much different to fighting a mob of darkspawn, except the Seekers smelled marginally better. Athadra had seen overwhelming odds in every battle she'd ever fought; rare was the day that she wasn't either in combat or at practice, and she never fought one-on-one. For six years she had trained herself to dive into the horde, to cut her way free, and to dive in yet again if the situation prompted. For six years she had fought and bled and treated every battle like it might be her last. Like it might be _this_ battle.

The first cut opened above her left eye, when the upper edge of a shield whispered across her forehead while her swords were busy fending off three other attacks. It was inconsequential as an injury, but like any nick to the brow, it bled spectacularly. That small cut was enough for her to call upon the forbidden arts, and she did so without hesitation; suddenly, the man who'd buffeted her with his shield began twitching, along with his three fellows, as Athadra reached into their veins and boiled their blood. A great cry went up in response, of _maleficar_ and _demon_, and the Seekers a few paces away rushed to engage her with renewed energy.

The Veil was thinner than it might be in this place, thanks in part to Rendon Howe's butchery, and Athadra could sense spirits and demons pressing in all through the room, hungry to cross into the mortal realm. If she had a mind, and the time, she might have been able to pull a few weaker spirits through and bind them to one or two of the newly-fallen. But the mage had neither the will nor the leisure to play havoc with creatures from the Fade; more than ten bodies littered the floor, the flagstones washed in blood, and there was no shortage of Seekers to stand in place of their slain brethren. Sheer numbers kept Athadra from casting many offensive spells, as often happened in the Deep Roads, which was one reason that much of Athadra's spellcraft had atrophied since her liberation from the Circle Tower. Much of it except the blood; blood she could use, and _did_ use, to lend strength to her arms and rob it of her enemies.

Blood filled the air around her in a haze, working through the gaps in the Seekers' armour, into their mouths and noses and eyes. Blood infiltrated their magical defences, it did not answer to their attempts to dispel it. Blood seeped freely from the Warden; from her face, from her flanks, from her thighs and wrists and elbows where lucky strikes found purchase in the joints of her own heavy plate. Blood fueled her resilience, her resistance, her stubborn refusal to die even as so many of Lambert's men found the fate irresistible.

Even Grey Wardens never faced the horde alone, save when they knew they would not emerge from it. Athadra fought valiantly; she fought bravely; she fought with the sole intention of dragging as many Seekers to the Void as she could. For all her strength, for all her courage, she remained a solitary elf amidst a sea of humans. Missteps and mistakes accumulated, and ultimately the field of her opponents thinned enough that Lambert gained room enough to manoeuvre that broadsword of his. Athadra counted seven Seekers, plus their leader, out of a force of more than thirty men. They formed into two shield-walls, the kind that darkspawn would break open and turn into a rout. But Athadra was not a horde, and she had to spend her flagging energy dulling her blades against the Seekers' shields. The effort kept the eight men at bay for a few breaths, but soon enough the Warden sunk to one knee, and not long after she had to support herself with a hand to the floor while the other flashed her sword in increasingly-lethargic arcs, until finally Lambert stepped forward, raising his broadsword high.

At the bottom of her heartbeat, Athadra's world concentrated to a single point of light, an instant before agony unlike any she'd ever felt exploded across her face. The pain lasted for just an instant, however, before blackness swept over her senses.

* * *

Author's note: Thanks so much to my beta-reader, **clafount**, for all of her support!


	4. If I Had A Heart

_Highever Castle_

_8 Justinian, 9:36 Dragon_

oOoOo

The knock on the door was as soft as a whisper, but that was shock enough after the carnage that only recently echoed through the castle's halls. "It is done," Fergus breathed, looking up from his lap.

"No, my heart," Daya replied, giving her husband a mournful look as she slid off the great bed and onto her feet. "For me, the trial has only begun."

He was at her side in a heartbeat, his grip firm but guarded on her upper arm. "Are you certain there is no other way, my love?"

Her answer was pre-empted by another knock, more urgent this time, accompanied by words too muffled by the thick wood to make out properly. Daya offered her husband a calming smile and a pat on his soft shoulder, which had once been so strong. "I must go, Fergus."

The teyrn's fingers remained closed around her arm for another moment, but then he relented, rocking back on his heels until he fell onto the place she'd just vacated, at the foot of the bed. "Go, then," he said, his eyes slipping to the floor. "But should you not return…"

"Then I pray you one day find a love as pure as that which we have shared, my heart," Daya told him, swallowing her nerves. She had faced worse than what was coming, but not recently, and not often; the streets of Kont-aar weren't nearly as orderly as the city's Qunari council leaders pretended, especially for an unchained _saarebas_. But Daya had clawed her way out of those slums, and she would see her way through this, even if the cost was already higher than she wished to consider.

The third round of knocking sounded as she pushed up the crossbeam that would have delayed a concentrated assault by a few mere minutes. "Apologies for the delay," she offered, when the door opened to reveal a blood-soaked warrior standing haggardly, his armour scored with deep scars, a few of which still faintly wept. "Gerard," Daya whispered hoarsely, once she'd shut the door behind her and recognised his face beneath the new lacerations and sheets of crimson that obscured his features. "She is...detained?"

"Yes, my lady," the Seeker allowed, his voice tinged with the respect she'd never earned, underneath echoes of exhaustion. "Though I fear your new home may...never recover." He stumbled into a slow walk, but when Daya moved to steady him, the man flinched away. "No, my lady," he growled. "There is...corruption in the blood," Gerard explained. "You must take care to avoid it at all costs."

She understood his meaning at once, and she had to suppress a shudder at the implications as she fell into step beside the Seeker. "Even if you would allow it, then, you are beyond my skill."

It wasn't a question, and so Gerard did not provide an answer. "I will soon join too many of my brethren," he said, instead. "Already I can feel my veins beginning to light afire from within." He was grim, resigned, but his tone held notes of respect, perhaps even admiration.

If she lived a dozen lifetimes, Daya would never comprehend the foolish currency of honour that warriors traded, even unto death. She followed the doomed Seeker through the corridor and into the Great Hall. Before crossing the threshold, she tried to clear her mind of the placid room where she'd taken so many meals in peace by her husband's side, but despite her best efforts, the mage couldn't hold back a pained gasp at the devastation which greeted her upon entrance. She regretted it immediately, for the stench of blood and death already choked the room; if Daya had broken her fast, she would certainly render it up in tribute to the fallen. "Spirits," she whispered, momentarily forgetting herself.

Forty-four Seekers had come to Highever over the past few months, and every single one of them was in the Great Hall now. Faces of men she had feared and secretly hated stared out at nothing, masks of waxen agony coloured with cold blood. The Lord Seeker and three of his surviving companions heaved a body onto the growing pile in the centre of the chamber; many were missing limbs, and more than one had had their bellies opened, adding to the miasma. Deducting the living from the total, Daya reasoned that thirty-six rested among the dead.

"This was the work of but one mage?" She asked, through the fingers she'd clapped over her nose and mouth.

The Lord Seeker came to stand before the new arrivals, his heavy gaze falling upon Gerard, as though the mage had not spoken. "Sit, my friend," he pronounced, gesturing to the far wall. The banquet table had been pushed flush against it, and three of the warriors convalesced on the fine furniture as though it were a hospital bed. Only once Gerard offered a feeble salute and dragged himself away did the Lord Seeker turn his eyes onto Daya. "This was the work of a monster in the form of a mage," he told her, his moustache curling with his distaste. "Whom you must pray has been weakened as thoroughly as she appears."

Daya cast her eyes down and away from the Lord Seeker's face, unable to withstand his intense scrutiny, and finally she caught a glimmer of crimson and silver from the corner of her eye. Turning carefully to avoid a puddle of blood settling between two flagstones, the mage did not immediately recognise the sight before her. At first glance the figure appeared to be a poorly-hung suit of armour, held fast against the stone by iron spikes which had been driven through the joints, the arms spread wide and shins overlapping. But that first impression was instantly swept away by streams of crimson which painted the wall from the suit's forearms, elbows, shoulders, and calves. The shadow obscuring the armour's crest resolved into a tangle of sweat- and blood-soaked hair.

She hardly noticed the Lord Seeker's whispered orders to his ambulatory subordinates, nor their limping from the room, for the head beneath that mass of black hair slowly lifted. Daya stood, transfixed, as the captive woman's face revealed itself; one blood-coloured eye, the Warden's right, cast a burning hatred toward her observer. The left half of her face was a disgusting ruin of flesh and blood that seeped from a hollow socket. The Warden took a slow, rattling breath, and Daya sensed the faintest flicker of mana guttering. "Now…" the elf rasped, thickly. "Or later?"

Her lucidity was surprising, given the circumstances. Daya was quite certain she hadn't ever seen anyone as close to death, yet still tenaciously clinging to their last moments. "I'm afraid I do not understand your question, Champion," the human mage allowed, unable to look away from the horror of the elf's injuries.

The Warden's head lolled, settling back down until her chin rested against her breastplate. "Now or later," she repeated, even more hoarsely. "Kill me...die now. Save me...die later," she managed. "You choose."

"She means," the Lord Seeker prompted, his voice startling Daya into a flinch, "that you can kill her now and die by my hand, or you may proceed with the Rite of Tranquility, and one day die by hers. I promise you, it is an empty threat."

Daya took another look about herself, at the pile of bodies and the litter of their constituent parts, and she shuddered. "I am not certain-"

"I am," the Lord Seeker interjected. "If you do not abide by the terms we agreed upon, you shall take Athadra's place."

A gurgling, fricative noise issued out from the wall, and it took Daya a moment to recognise that the dying elf was actually _laughing_. "Let me die," she insisted, unable-or perhaps unwilling-to raise her head to issue the entreaty.

Daya sensed the precariousness of her position, but even though the Warden was bleeding her last few drops right before the human's eyes, even though the brush of her mana was as intangible as a bolt of gossamer fabric, Daya was still wary of approaching her. The Lord Seeker looked on, expectant and exhausted. Had she more than an ounce of bravery, Daya might try to slit the man's throat herself...but she had gained and lost too much to throw it away, so the human mage took as deep a breath as she could manage in this charnel house, and she sent a few cool tendrils of her magic to probe along the Warden's flesh. "She is very near death," Daya said. "Each heartbeat robs her of blood. If I do not heal her, she will not survive the Rite."

"Do it, then," the man allowed. "Seal her wounds as best you can from afar."

Gathering what courage she could muster, Daya closed her eyes, pushing her magical limbs deeper into the Warden's tissues. Healing was always a tricky business; most mundanes imagined it a refreshing experience, or at the very least a relieving one...but the opposite was true almost every time. Injuries could be closed and ailments ameliorated, to be sure, but such a benefit did not come without cost to the recipient, nor to the enchanter. This time was no exception, and as Daya guided her arcane energy to knit the Warden's flesh and bones around the very implements that had rent them to begin with, she felt an echo of the pain that the elf must feel. Though the sensation was hardly a glimmer of the real thing, Daya felt her arms and legs burn from the inside out, and an intense pressure behind her left eye. She swooned, hissing from the budding agony, but the Lord Seeker's naked hands closed about her shoulders to keep her afoot.

"Take care you do not open your own flesh," he cautioned. "This one is quite adept at hijacking the very blood from your veins."

"I remember your earlier warnings," the mage assured him, doing her best not to bristle beneath his grasp. Clearing her mind, Daya carefully finished sealing the Warden's wounds, so that the last of her lifeblood would not drain out onto the floor; the woman's work would be undone once the stakes were drawn from the elf's flesh, with survival even less likely afterward, but Daya would settle that account when the time came. The Warden hadn't even grunted, either unconscious or too inured by the agony she'd already experienced to respond. "I believe she is stable enough, Lord Seeker."

The Lord Seeker released the human mage without even a nod, turning to the door just as two of his subordinates muscled a sizeable cistern into the room. The sight of the great stone basin made Daya's heart flutter, but she did not move as the men carefully picked their way between her and the Warden, she did not flinch when the heavy burden rasped on the flagstones of the floor, and though her eyes stung, she did not scream after the Seekers removed the cistern's covering and the metallic tang of liquid lyrium overpowered the more macabre stink that she was just beginning to grow accustomed to.

The Seekers retreated a handful of paces, though all of them readied their weapons. "You know what must be done," the Lord Seeker intoned, lifting his bloodstained broadsword. "Have you any final reservations?"

Daya shook her head, slowly, staving off a frown until she'd turned her back on the armed men. "Maker," she prayed, "give me strength." It was for their benefit and her survival, but she didn't think any prayers would go amiss at the moment. Swallowing with difficulty, the mage took a single step forward, driving her hand up to her forearm into the basin of lyrium. Its power roiled, crawling up her limb, reawakening the phantom aches that her healing had bestowed. Her eyes locked onto the crown of the Warden's bowed head as darkness consumed her vision from the edges inward, until her world entailed a single point of off-black light.

Every mage reacted differently to entering the Fade. Some came awake all at once, while others poured into their dream-selves like a trickle of wine. Daya was of the latter sort; first her ears opened to the distorted sighs of the land beyond the Veil, then she felt the breath of the thick air along her skin, and only slowly did the sight return to her eyes. When it did, she saw the sweeping mountains of Highever risen around her, impossibly high and sheer. At the same time she was in a ceilingless parody of the Great Hall, its long table and many chairs floating about in the air. The Warden's figure hung directly before the mage, transparent, the essence of someone between dreams and the shadow of death. Wherever stakes gored her flesh in the waking world, the Warden's astral body was pierced with glowing shafts of light that hurt to look upon, but hurt even more to look away from.

If Daya had reached out in that last moment, touched the Warden as she dipped her hand into the pool of lyrium, then they would both be conscious now, perhaps even able to converse...for all the good that might have done. But instead Daya had been too frightened of a single brush with the other woman's corrupted blood, and so her last moments as a mage would pass unremarked upon.

Daya took a breath of airless air, clasping her hands before her. She had neither dagger nor staff, and she lacked the skill to conjure them in this place, but she did not need such a gift to do what she must. "I do not expect you to forgive me," she allowed, her voice echoing strangely off the sheer cliff faces that coexisted with the chamber's walls. Her palms parted slightly, and in the gap between them, a thin sheen of arcane energy shimmered. "I have not one-tenth your strength, nor your courage," the mage went on, drawing her hands farther apart, coaxing the conjured energy into a tight sphere. "I am sorry, Champion."

Gritting her teeth, Daya poured all of the mana she could manage into the sphere, until it thrummed and trembled within her grip. With a great effort she pushed it forward, directly into the Warden's translucent chest. The one-eyed elf shuddered, her one eye stretching wide and her mouth gaping with one final breath; the spears of light impaling her arms and legs shifted from a harsh white radiance to a deep violet glow, and that glow rapidly diffused throughout the image of the hanging woman. In only a few seconds nothing remained of the Warden but a spectre of purple, and then there was only a void.

"I am sorry," Daya said again, to herself, utterly alone in the land of spirits.

oOoOo

_9 Justinian, 9:36 Dragon_

oOoOo

The pyre had burnt all evening and through the night, giving over to embers only in the small hours just before dawn. Exhaustion weighed Lambert down, but he stood watching, though his two remaining lieutenants had caught a few hours' rest at his unbrookable insistence. _She_ stood beside him, dressed in simple Chantry robes, her hair shorn down to the scalp and the left side of her head covered in bloodied gauze which half-obscured the sunburst brand upon her forehead which marked her as Chantry property.

"It is nearly time to go," he remarked, when the light of morning became stronger than the glow from the remains of his companions. She didn't answer him, as indeed she would not unless he gave her a command or asked her a question, but her one remaining eye pivoted to regard him with detached attentiveness. "Had your companion elected to remain," he went on, "it is quite likely you would have thwarted me." He had no trouble admitting that, at least where no others could hear. Any shame he felt was overwhelmed by his curiosity. "Why did he flee?"

"I sent him away," she replied, her voice a rough monk's chant.

"That raises the obvious question," he pointed out, turning to face her more fully and crossing his arms. "Eventually you will learn when to answer obvious questions without having to be told."

"Yes, Lord Seeker," she chanted at him. Despite common opinion, Tranquil mages were not idiots; indeed, their inner clarity and unparalleled focus allowed them lucid insights beyond any other creatures Lambert had ever encountered. But they assigned no value to their observations, could no longer imagine the facts from another point of view...from _any_ point of view. "If I had succeeded in slaying the lot of you," she went on, "it would only have delayed another such confrontation, and it would likely have resulted in Teyrn Fergus' death. This was not a desired outcome."

Lambert took a breath, considering her words. "Your reputation would have demanded you seek retribution," he pronounced. "For what reason must the teyrn survive?"

"Ferelden must be united," she explained, and when he tipped his head, she continued in the same rough monotone. "Orlais is becoming less stable, the Qunari are beginning preparations for an eventual invasion, and another Blight will soon erupt across the centre of Thedas." In the mouth of anyone unkissed by the Chantry's justice, such reasons would have been relayed passionately, and the last prediction might have been feverishly urgent.

The Lord Seeker was intimately aware of the first fact, and anyone of consequence in Thedas was ever mindful of the second, but the third gave him pause. "My associates in Weisshaupt have made no mention of an impending Blight," he commented, to himself. "How do you know what they do not, Athadra?" He allowed himself the use of her name, however cruel it might be to maintain the illusion that she was still a person.

She blinked three times, the pause the only indication that she was thinking quite furiously, since not a single muscle of her face twitched to betray any emotion. "Because," she said, "I have woken the two remaining Old Gods."

_That_ was certainly an unexpected bit of news. "I had wondered about your business in Kirkwall," Lambert admitted, frowning deeply and returning his gaze to the smouldering remains of his platoon of men. His own plans would have to be accelerated in the face of this new development. "In time, you shall give me a full accounting of your achievements and designs...but, for the moment, I would like your opinion on something."

"Yes, Lord Seeker," she acknowledged.

"Over the course of our vigil, I have more than once felt tempted to kill you," he allowed. "Unlike you, I am still cursed with the bonds of fraternity, and you slew a great many of my brothers."

"Forty-one," she supplied, neutrally.

He had to take a breath and close his eyes; if he didn't know the better of it, he might be tempted to think she gloated. "Forty-one," he agreed. "Thirty-six in combat, and the balance through the darkspawn taint in your veins." He forced his eyes open once more, forced himself to look upon the embers of his fellows. Even if Athadra did not promise to be a fount of information, he would not allow himself the base satisfaction of revenge; the souls of the dead would not be joyed by her execution. They'd all known the risks, they'd all volunteered to bring her to service, they'd given their lives to sear the brand into her flesh. "I would learn where I erred, and how I might have kept this pyre from growing so high."

"You erred by not killing me," she told him.

He snorted. "I shall not nullify their sacrifice simply because I loved them," he countered, somewhat heatedly. "Do you not wish to live, even now?"

"I prefer to live, Lord Seeker," she stated, reflexively. "Yet each hour of life you grant me increases the likelihood that I will regain my connection to the Fade, and if that ever happens, I will kill you." Lambert had long thought himself immune to the alien quality of a Tranquil's delivery, long considered himself above surprise at what they might tell him, but a breath of ice tickled up his spine at the clinical prediction. Before he could gather his wits, she went on, dispassionately. "If you prefer to avoid that fate, you should interrogate and then kill me."

The Lord Seeker felt his mouth run dry as he glanced at her; she was a maleficar, a blood mage. It was the reason that Harrowed mages were executed by templars rather than made Tranquil-even Tranquil mages could cast spells with their own blood, when prompted, and templars ever feared the Tranquil using such gifts unsupervised. But Lambert van Reeves was no simple templar...he was Lord Seeker, and he did not fall prey to unfounded paranoia. "You will not kill me," he said, baldly, and then he followed up with "I forbid it," just in case.

She inclined her head, docile as a broken horse. "My sole priority is my own survival," she acknowledged. "Living under your protection is the most likely scenario to prolong my survival, and therefore I must obey."

Lambert nodded, almost satisfied. "Such is the fate of all Tranquil," he said, "until they grow old and die. None has ever been restored." There was no response, no flicker of disagreement behind that blood-coloured eye...but, then, there wouldn't be. "Do you know otherwise, Athadra?"

"I suspect otherwise," she replied, after a pause which was longer than it might've been. "A mage in my employ became possessed by a spirit, many years ago," she explained. "His associates in Kirkwall described to me an instance in which my friend's presence temporarily restored a Tranquil mage's heart to his mind, though I never investigated the matter further."

That breath of ice returned to Lambert's spine. Twice in one morning, which hadn't happened in quite some time. "Luckily, Tranquil mages are invisible to demons themselves," he pointed out, trying to ignore the niggling doubt her words threatened to breed within him. "So, as long as we do not happen upon any abominations in our travels, I should remain quite safe." Still, for a moment, this new information complicated matters...his next destination was the White Spire, where the Circle of Val Royeaux was housed and thus a place in which the Veil was particularly thin from centuries of concentrated magical exercise. Yet Tranquil mages had long lived and worked in the tower, the same as all other Circles in Thedas, and so after a moment's reflection, the Lord Seeker renewed his resolve. "Let us go," he decided. "We have a carriage to load and a ship to catch. You might even know of one of its passengers."

She absorbed his command and his comments without retort, turning only when he began to stride away from the remnants of the pyre. She limped, making no complaint; not yet healed, it was something of a miracle that she had survived at all, given the gravity of her wounds. The lost eye was beyond the healer's skill, though that was in some ways the least of her injuries. Beneath the robe and in addition to the well-worn scars she'd earned since leaving Kinloch Hold, she carried new marks which would pucker her flesh for the rest of her life. Deep fissures in her shoulders, elbows, forearms, and wrists hinted at much greater damage to flesh and bone, and it would be unlikely that she could ever properly wield a pen again, much less a dagger or a sword. Even the most skilled of healers wouldn't be able to make her as she was at the height of her power.

But, as they stepped away from the fire and the dawn, Lambert caught a glint in the depths of her right eye that he couldn't quite convince himself was merely a reflection of the morning light, and he had to ignore a third chill in less than an hour to tingle over the base of his spine.

* * *

Author's note: Thanks so much to my awesome beta-reader, **clafount**, as well as everyone who's reading along!


	5. The New World

_Royal Palace, Denerim_

_11 Justinian, 9:36 Dragon_

oOoOo

It still amused Anora that, after more than five years residence in the most well-stocked palace in the country, her husband continued to devour every meal as though he were still the half-starved wastrel traipsing about the countryside with his little sword and bloodthirsty companions. It amused her, but there was disappointment threaded through her amusement, along with touches of anger, though it had been years since she'd given herself over to either. Alistair's appetite was driven not by greed, but by the curse which lurked in his blood, which had already robbed him of any chance of a legacy and would eventually rob her of his presence. That she felt the occasional desire to weep at the prospect of losing him came as something of a surprise, given the political foundations of their union and the fact that he was already in love with another woman. But somewhere in the years after Cailan's death by the inaction of her father, after her father's murder by Alistair's leader and friend, after the wedding that saved the country, Anora found the inner distance between her heart and her mind growing short. When she looked at the man now, with his close-cropped beard and the lines just beginning to crease around his eyes, she felt an upwelling of affection which nearly frightened her with its sudden intensity. "Have you made the arrangements for your journey, Alistair?"

The King of Ferelden tried to answer through a mouthful of lamb stew, nearly choked, and had to take several gulps of water before he cleared his throat. "Yes," he managed, and he at least had the wherewithal to look chagrined. "Teagan and I will set out day after tomorrow...if I don't manage to please the Bannorn before then." He coughed again, and then took another great mouthful of stew.

Anora rolled her eyes; she'd longsince abandoned warning him off of such cavalier humour. "And after you tour the Free Marches," she wondered, after chewing methodically through her own bite of stew, "will you be accompanying your uncle to Val Royeaux, or shall the two of you part company?"

Alistair did not attempt a reply at first, but he did give her a measured look as he considered her _true_ question. _Will you see her before you return_? "No," he settled, and she believed him.

"Then have Teagan send my regards to the empress and the Divine," she told him, her brows drawing together with unfeigned sympathy. Anora should have hated the bard, Leliana, or at least felt indifferent to her continued claim upon Alistair's affections...but since she'd left Denerim, the queen found herself missing the other woman's company and companionship nearly as much as the king must have. "And make certain you come back safely to me." She was not a superstitious woman, but ever since Cailan's father had sailed away and never returned, Anora always worried about journeys by sea. Yet there were Fereldans in Kirkwall, in Ostwick, in Starkhaven and other Marcher cities across the Waking Sea, and Alistair had a duty to see they were well-treated and welcomed home, if they'd a mind to come. _Besides_, he'd told her one night, after she'd confided her misgivings, _it's not like I wouldn't rather fly across the ocean on a griffon, if only they hadn't gone and got all extinct. Think of all the wasted potential in being able to swoop into fancy parties unannounced! On a griffon!_ And then he'd held her, and kissed her, and promised to come back.

He looked on the verge of renewing that vow, only to be interrupted by a frantic knock on the drawing room door. "Beg pardon, Your Majesties," came Telmure's muffled voice, through the thick wood. "But I've got an elf-err, that is, a _very handsome_ elf with two _incredibly sharp_ daggers, one of 'em at my throat and the other an inch away from my liver, and he would hate to have to deprive you of a perfectly-good door guard unnecessarily." The fancier words were foreign on the man's tongue. He was a good, sturdy sort, but hardly lettered and unpretentious, so his affectation could only have been prompted by his captor. "Might we come in, please?"

Alistair was already on his feet, halfway to the double-bearded axe hanging over the fireplace, and before Anora could tell the intruder that he would have to kill his hostage before getting into their rooms, her foolish husband took up the weapon and grimaced at the door. "It'll be alright, Telmure," he assured the captive. "Come on."

Anora did not sit passively while the king saw fit to invite a madman into their chambers; even as the latch scraped, she strode to Alistair's side, retrieving her slim daggers from the well-concealed sheaths hidden amongst the billowing forearms of her gown. Interesting conversation was not the sole reason she had grown close to her husband's lover, after all, in the time since the Blight.

The door opened to reveal the simple guardsman, sweat upon his brow and silver glinting from his neck and at his side. "I'm sorry, sers," he began, but his captor cut him off.

"To argue in the poor man's defence," the stranger began, and at once Anora recognised the Antivan colouring in the assassin's tones, "I would have slit his throat on the spot if he had believed my claim to know you, Your Majesties."

The queen took a meticulous breath, glancing curiously to her husband. He arched a brow. "_Zev_?"

The elf peeked out from behind his captive. "_Disculpe_ for interrupting your meal," he trundled, sounding and looking exhausted. "Might I release your doorman without having to kill him, _por favor_?"

"Yes," Anora pronounced, relaxing once she recognised Zevran Arainai, another one of Alistair's murderous friends. "Please stand down, Telmure," she told her servant, even though it was him under the knife. "This man means us no harm." She didn't entirely believe that, but she knew that Alistair would never suspect him of disloyalty.

Telmure rubbed at a slight nick on his throat when Zevran pulled back the blades, his cheeks ruddy with shame above his beard. "Sorry, m'lord, m'lady," he offered again.

"It's quite alright," Alistair assured him. "Return to your post." The guardsman nodded, grateful, and the two men exchanged quick salutes. Telmure did not look at his captor as he stalked back to stand on guard outside the door.

"If it is any consolation," the Antivan assassin panted, "he would have given his life, had I not disarmed him and threatened to kill his children." Zevran swooned on his feet, sinking down to one knee to keep himself from falling. "Might I trouble you for a chair and a glass of water, Your Majesties?"

"Of course," Alistair replied, replacing the axe above the mantlepiece and moving to collect his friend. Anora tensed slightly, the thought of betrayal never far from the surface of her thoughts, but Zevran seemed genuinely fatigued. His platinum hair was unspun, with dirt and leaves woven through it, and it looked like he hadn't been out of his leathers in days. "_Maker_, Zevran," the king exclaimed, "what's happened to you? Aren't you supposed to be in Kirkwall?"

The assassin fell into the very chair Alistair had vacated a few moments before, and his reply was delayed by a deep draught of Alistair's wine. "_Gracias_, _mi amigo_," he sighed. "We were indeed in Kirkwall until quite recently."

Anora's curiosity got the better of her suspicion. "What has happened? What brought you to us in such rough shape?"

Zevran inclined his head in a small show of deference, though he did not lower his eyes. "The Circle has fallen, there; the templars and the mages have come to open war in the streets, and as we speak, both factions are certainly attempting to expand the battlefront across the Free Marches and beyond."

It was the height of summer, so there was not even the crackle of the fireplace to provide cover for the thick silence which followed the haggard elf's pronouncement. It was not a shock, precisely, given the mounting tensions within the Chantry's system of regulating those afflicted with magic. Reports from all over Thedas were becoming increasingly troubled; even Alistair's attempts to accommodate mages' rights with Chantry interests in their own country was fraught with friction and mistrust from both sides. "Well," Alistair managed, sitting heavily in Anora's seat and glancing at her over his shoulder, "at least this means I won't be getting on a ship to the Free Marches any time soon."

She breathed a sigh, unable to keep a small sliver of pleasure out of her expression. "Leave it to you to warm your hands upon the kindling that might set all Thedas alight, my dear," she told him, coming to sit across from the men at the table as her mind raced. "We must prepare," she began. "We must-"

Zevran cleared his throat. "I am sorry for interrupting again," he said, "but I did not spend nearly four days hiking through the Coastlands and hijacking merchant carts simply to deliver such trivia." A spasm of real pain stole over the elf's face, and for a moment Anora wondered if he'd been wounded somehow, but he soon illuminated the cause of his grief. "Athadra is...gone."

"_What_?!" Alistair stood so suddenly that his chair clattered backward onto the floor. "What do you mean, gone? Is she dead?"

The elf's reply was a heartbeat in coming. "I do not know, _mi amigo_," he rasped. "But I suspect it quite likely."

The king began to pace, fidgeting, seeming much more like a nervous boy than the well-seasoned monarch she'd groomed him to be. "She can't be dead," he insisted, throwing a wild look to Anora. "Can she?"

Anora recalled her few private conversations with the Commander of the Grey over the years; not a single one had passed without the credible threat that Athadra would murder her if Anora did not keep the woman's secrets. The novelty had worn off quickly, but the fear had remained, and there were things the queen had not even told her husband. "If you are asking for my opinion," she ventured, choosing her words with care, "I would have to say I am unsurprised. Violent people often encounter violent ends."

The etching of emotion in Zevran's features quickly sublimated into a mask of polite indifference...a dangerous expression in a trained killer. "As you say, Your Majesty," he supplied, pulling himself from his chair with a grunt. "And now I must take my leave."

"Wait," Alistair called, reaching out grab at the elf's shoulder. "You can't go."

Zevran proved nimble enough to dance backward from the gesture, despite his exhaustion. "I daresay you could not stop me, _amigo viejo_, and I recommend you do not make the attempt."

The king stopped short, his brows drawing together in a mild show of a much deeper hurt. "But...you haven't told us anything," he pointed out. "Where did she go? Why do you think she's dead?"

The assassin clenched and unclenched his fists, his eyes closed in sudden concentration. "Her final request was that Ferelden remain united, for the troubles to come," he said. "Our Warden is gone, and we shall never see her again." He turned, making for the door. "And now I have said enough."

Anora's lips formed around her question before she even knew she was curious. "Where shall you go?"

Zevran paused, his hand on the door's latch, and he glanced back just enough to give her a glimpse of his tattooed cheek. "There is nothing left for me in this country but fleas and whores," he told them. "So my first stop will be to say farewell to them, before I return home." The elf took a breath, facing forward again. "Goodbye, Alistair," he allowed, "and luck be to you. I suggest you pass the news along to Nathaniel and the rest of the Order in Redcliffe." Just before he stepped across the threshold, however, he graced Anora with one final look. "_Tenga cuidado con los templarios_."

Then he was gone, as abruptly and certainly as if he'd never been. An emptiness settled over Anora's stomach as she regarded her husband; he looked stricken, which she could understand, but they could ill afford to indulge him in his grief. She rose and went to him, bracing his shoulders with a gentle grip. "We must verify this news as best we can," she said, lifting up on the balls of her feet to bring her level with his gaze. "And then recall the Landsmeet for an emergency session."

Alistair swallowed thickly, his eyelids fluttering, and then his strong arms coiled around her torso, pulling her into a crushing embrace. "I love you," he whispered against her cheek.

The solemnity of the vow wrenched that chilled emptiness away, and Anora felt her hollow spaces filling with a gentle warmth as she fell into the man's embrace. "I love you, too," she said, and meant it.

The king took a deep breath, still holding her close. "What did Zev tell you, just before he left?"

Anora pulled back, just enough to look her husband in the eye. "He told us to beware of the templars."

oOoOo

_White Spire, Val Royeaux_

_15 Justinian, 9:36 Dragon_

oOoOo

It had only been three days, but the long climb to the top of the Spire felt like it would _never_ get any easier to make, no matter how long Evangeline served here. She understood the logic of having the templars' quarters so near the bottom of the tower, while the knight-commander's office must needs be at its apex, but such deduction was little consolation to her knees as she lugged her fully-armoured self up step after step. _Perhaps my heroism at the ball was a mistake after all_, she found herself thinking, and then she felt ashamed; it was by her sword that the maleficar Jeannot had been slain, thwarting his attempt to assassinate Divine Justinia. The Divine, in turn, had rewarded Evangeline by naming her Knight-Captain of the White Spire. Rejecting such a gift, even in moments of levity or weakness, flirted with blasphemy.

The Tranquil elf did not speak as she led the templar up to the office; she had not spoken a word since telling Evangeline that her presence was requested at the top of the tower. She still found their silences disconcerting, despite her long experience in the order; most of her years had been spent protecting the clergy, transporting newly-discovered mages, and tracking down apostates...none of which put her in regular contact with Tranquil. But now that she had been posted to the most populous Circle outside of Tevinter, the new knight-captain supposed that she would have plenty of time to get acquainted with their kind, and so she indulged her own curiosity. "What is your name?"

The magicless mage answered with neither urgency nor hesitation. "I am called Fiona," she supplied, though she offered nothing else.

"I am Evangeline," the templar offered, despite not being asked. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I have not had a proper conversation with a Tranquil before."

Moments passed before the elf responded. "Is there a task you wish of me, Knight-Captain?"

"I wish for you to slow your pace," Evangeline told her, breathing just a bit harder than she'd like. Fiona replied by lagging until the templar could fall into step beside her. After crossing another flight in silence, Evangeline's curiosity piqued once more. "Did you elect to undertake the Rite, Fiona?"

"No," the elf informed her, with all the weight of a snowflake landing in late spring.

The knight-captain's lips parted as she huffed, a hint of embarrassment threatening. It was rude of her to ask, even if her companion could register no offence. "I am...sorry," she managed, though she wasn't certain if the apology was over her own _faux pas_ or the unfortunate necessity of subjecting Fiona to her fate. "But weak mages are a danger to themselves, as well as to us all," she recited, as though to cut through her own confusion.

"I am not a weak mage," Fiona said, and despite the evenness of her tone, there was an unmistakable contradiction in the statement. Evangeline might have pressed that surprising development, but they mounted the top of the great staircase and came face-to-face with Knight-Commander Eron's double doors. "We have arrived," the elf announced, before making their presence known by way of one of the great iron rungs hung for that very purpose.

A deep voice vibrated through the wood. "Enter, if you please." A moment later the doors swung outward under Fiona's effort, and Evangeline caught sight of a stranger sitting behind the knight-commander's desk. He was an enormous man, broad-shouldered, and the templar instantly recognised the crest emblazoned over his armoured chest. Her throat ran dry as the Seeker looked up from his papers and stared directly into her eyes, into her heart. His smile was no less terrifying for its softness. "Please come in, Evangeline," he beckoned.

The first step into the office felt like the first step onto the gallows might, she imagined. Fiona followed, closing the doors behind her and sinking into the shadows without a word. Evangeline gathered her courage, trying to mimic the Tranquil's blank expression as she faced down the man that might well be her executioner. "Have I done something, Seeker?" If she was to be put to the question herself, she would raise a few of her own.

The man's laugh was low and sonorous, like the Celestine River. "You have done a great many things, Knight-Captain," he assured her. "For which you should be proud." He sat forward, lacing his gauntleted fingers. "You've already shown that you know _what_ I am, Evangeline, but tell me...do you know _who_ I am?"

"No, monsieur," she admitted. "I've no idea who you are."

That answer seemed to please him. "Fiona," he prompted, and the Tranquil mage took a single step into the room's candlelight. "Please remind me of my name."

"Lambert van Reeves, Lord Seeker," the elf said.

The urge to kneel nearly overwhelmed the knight-captain, but she compromised by throwing herself into a bow, which earned her another deep chuckle. "Indeed so, Fiona," he told her. "Thank you." She took the praise as a directive to return to the shadows, and the Lord Seeker turned his attention back to the templar. "Stand," he instructed her. "I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me, Evangeline. In fact, I must offer you my congratulations on a job well done. Apprehending a murderer after two days in your post is quite commendable."

Evangeline could not entirely relax, but she felt the ice in her lungs begin to melt. "Senior Enchanter Rhys is guilty, then?" There had been a string of suspicious deaths over the past few months, by Knight-Commander Eron's reporting, and Evangeline had come across the mage in an unauthorised area outside of curfew. When he couldn't give a reasonable account of his purpose, she'd had no choice but to apprehend him, though the task had given her no pleasure.

"We have begun a trial," Lambert acknowledged. "Never let it be said that anyone is beyond the Maker's justice, Knight-Captain. That is not why I've called you here tonight, however."

"Beg pardon, Lord Seeker," Evangeline interrupted, unable to silence herself. "But why are you occupying the knight-commander's office? Where is Eron?"

Lambert's moustache twitched with another smile. "Eron has been called away to other duties, and I have assumed the position of Knight-Commander of the White Spire, as you must have already surmised. What you really mean to ask is _why_."

He waited until she nodded. "Why have you supplanted Eron as knight-commander, Lord Seeker?" But even as she asked, the answer presented itself clearly in Evangeline's thoughts.

"Because Kirkwall's Annulment was not sufficient to exhaust tension," Lambert explained. Word had arrived of the slaughter only earlier that morning, but already it had raced through the body of mages and templars at the Spire. "Conditions appear to be ripe for mages to mage a grand bid for their freedom." He spared a quick glance to his left, to the elf in the shadows. "Do you believe they will achieve more success than you did in Cumberland, Fiona?"

"Many will die," the Tranquil mage replied. "Some may live, for a time. Without a powerful leader, likelihood of long-term success is very slim."

As Fiona spoke, Evangeline realised that she was _Fiona_, the elven Grand Enchanter who'd disappeared after the most recent Conclave, the year previous. The templar had at first dismissed the name as a coincidence, and now she found her gaze drawn to the woman's forehead. "How…" She stammered, looking back to Lord Seeker Lambert. "It is against Chantry law to subject a Harrowed mage to the Rite."

The man's brow rose, as though the news came as a revelation to him. "Is it?" He wondered, settling back in his chair. "You would rather have had a formal inquiry into the proceedings of the Cumberland Conclave, into the vote to separate the Circle's governance from Chantry oversight, in which no moderate voices were able to sway the Libertarians?" He shook his head, still smiling. "You know as well as I that such exposure would have only resulted in Circles rising a year ago, rather than today. And in any case," he said, his pleasant demeanour evaporating somewhat, "that is why _I _am in this office; it is not why _you_ are here."

Evangeline fairly reeled from the deluge of information the Lord Seeker had given her in only a few moments of speech. There was the fact that the Grand Enchanter and senior members of the Conclave had not simply disappeared, but had been made Tranquil; the fact of the vote for liberation, and all of its implications for the coming conflict; the fact that, despite canon law and her own lingering misgivings, Evangeline had to admit that such extremes indeed seemed the most effective countermeasure at the time. In the end, however, Lambert was correct; such issues were above her concern, at least until her superiors deigned to involve her. "What would you have me do, Lord Seeker?" She wondered, swallowing her shock beneath a veneer of discipline.

"Another of my subjects has communicated a disturbing possibility," Lambert informed her. "She claims that it is possible to reverse the Rite of Tranquility; at first I was dismissive, but upon my arrival and review of my predecessor's affairs, I have discovered that he himself was investigating this very question."

In an evening of surprises, this new information was just more for the pile. "We know very little of the Rite," the templar observed. "It may well be reversible."

The Lord Seeker's brows rose again, though the pleasure in his expression seemed far more genuine, this time. "That is a far more open attitude than I had expected," he commented. "You may yet be the perfect agent for the task ahead, Knight-Captain," he went on. "Eron's records indicate that he sanctioned a Tranquil mage named Pharamond to research the question, from the safety of an abandoned fortress on the edge of the Abyssal Reach." He took a measured breath, composing his thoughts. "You are to gather supplies and companions; I will allow one fellow templar and two mages for the purpose. Once you are prepared, you will seek out Pharamond and ascertain his progress."

Evangeline nodded crisply. "It shall be done," she vowed. "...and what if there _is_ progress, Lord Seeker?"

"I doubt I need to press upon you the importance of the Rite," Lambert said, seriously. "And once the possibility of reversal is discovered, we must assume that it shall become inevitable, rendering the Rite useless. So, should you discover Pharamond's success, you must see to it that not one scrap of his knowledge makes it out of that fortress."

She'd known that would be the man's answer; it could not have been otherwise. "I understand," she assured him, though part of her wished she didn't. "May I go begin preparations, Lord Seeker?" He inclined his head, and Evangeline's first thought upon exiting his office was that at least she would not have to climb the stairs for a time.

* * *

Author's note: Thanks so much to my wonderful beta-reader, **clafount**, and to everyone else who's reading along! This may be the last update for a little while, as I've got to focus on finishing up my Master's thesis and then somehow finding a job...so, for the time being, _First Blood_ is on **hiatus**. See you soon!


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